‘Yes!’ said Neolaidas, gasping, hunting with his eyes for Panteus or Phoebis to help him.
They did, both at once beginning to talk about some more necessary precautions for the safety of Tegea. After supper the King suddenly demanded that someone should play draughts with him. Therykion did that, but the King could not keep it up for long. A deputation of citizens came in, genuinely grieved over this thing, for they were near enough to Sparta to know what sort of a couple Kleomenes and Agiatis had been. Kleomenes made them a Stoic set-speech which moved them deeply. Panteus stood by in case he broke down in the middle of it. At last the evening came to an end, as such evenings do. One by one they went out, quickly or slowly. The two boys stayed till almost the last, unable to move. Hippitas took a hand of each of them to lead them out, hoping they would say nothing. But at the end of the room the younger one turned, pulling his hand away. ‘Oh, my uncle,’ he said, gasping, and he kissed the King hard. When they were gone Phoebis began to blow out the lamps. ‘Get him to bed,’ he whispered to Panteus. ‘You’ll stay, won’t you?’ ‘Yes,’ said Panteus.
For an hour or two the King slept deeply. Panteus, tired enough too after yesterday, stayed awake for some while, solidly unhappy about everything—their defeat, and after it had looked for a moment as though they had got Argos again; his own men that he had trained himself for the New Times, so horribly disappointed; and this awful march back along the road they’d taken going out to conquer the world. And then, at the end, Agiatis, the other half of the King. She had been kind to him; he had loved her much and thought her very wise, but now he could hardly grieve for himself at all, it was hurting him so much more deeply through the King. But at last he too slipped down into sleep. After that the King began to wake, coming quietly out of the drowning, dim awareness of some shapeless disaster, over the threshold of dreams into full and sharp consciousness of everything. For half an hour he would face it with no physical stirring, no tears. He could not, perhaps, have spoken. Then, as his body overcame his mind, the things he saw would waver and blur and rock out into blackness again, and for another space of time he was unconscious and gathering strength against the next awakening.
The fifth time, about, that this happened, he saw the room beginning to grow grey with dawn. Slowly his spear- shaft propped against the wall became itself. He watched it, concentrating his outward senses on the strength and straightness of the spear, so that behind them his mind could come to fairly calm decision. The first thing now was to get back to Sparta and comfort his children, and think what power he could raise against Macedonia. Egypt. How? If Ptolemy were persuaded that Antigonos was going to seize all Greece and stay there and aim across the water at the islands, or Asia? Ptolemy might lend him money to stop that. He had helped Aratos against Macedonia in the old days—at the beginnings of the League. Egypt. Egypt. What sort of a place was Egypt? Agiatis had worn a dress of Egyptian muslin in the summer Nikolaos was born. Muslin embroidered with blue outlines of lotuses and wild duck. Gilt Egyptian slippers. The grip on his heart was beginning to get unbearable again.
He looked away from the spear, down along his body. In the growing dawn the hump, the pressure against his knees, gradually turned into Panteus asleep, crumpled up on the floor beside him, head and hands on his bed, one arm up over him, the fingers slackly and vainly clutching: squarish hands, straight-cut nails. He knew very well how much longer his own hands, laid over them, would be. Shoulders sagging away from the bed with the weight of their tiredness. How stiff Panteus would wake from it! Let him sleep, ah, let him sleep while he could. With concentrated slowness, the King drew himself up out of that vain embrace, and Panteus’ head and shoulders sank further down on the blanket and the open fingers still held on to nothing.
The King dressed and combed his hair and dipped his hands and wrists into the water-jar. He put on breastplate and sword-belt and greaves. He tiptoed over to Panteus and knelt beside him and kissed his hair and looked long at him, the grim line his mouth had taken now, the wrinkles beginning to come round his eyes. Sparta was hard on them all. He took up helmet and shield and spear, carrying them carefully. Suddenly he wished he had not played this game. He could not ride alone without this one of his two loves who alone was left. He called him in a whisper: ‘Panteus!’ and waited. But the whisper did not reach through that sleep. No, the King thought, I will face this alone. If I cannot do that I shall know I am weak and worthless and a coward. He turned to the door. But at one little, warning, metallic click the helmet gave against the shield, Panteus woke with a startled sob and swung round from the empty bed to see the King going softly out into the dawn.
He was with him again in a moment. He said: ‘Kleomenes, why were you leaving me?’ The King said: ‘I did not mean to wake you, my dear, I can do this alone.’ But Panteus was armed and ready—he had slept fully dressed and in his sandals—and out with the King before the horses were saddled. He brought bread and cheese for them to eat on the way. They rode up and up out of the plain of Tegea while the sun rose fair over them. At the steepest part of the pass it was quicker to walk, leading the horses. Here Kleomenes talked a little about Egypt and wondered what Egypt would want as the price for help. Aratos had sold the Achaean League to Antigonos for his help: what of Sparta would Ptolemy ask? Panteus said that he thought Ptolemy would not want to appear too openly against the other king. It would be better like that. Supplies sent secretly. If they could hire more soldiers and refit their own! Panteus said suddenly and grimly: ‘Money is the most important thing in the world!’
After the pass they went on quicker, cantering where they could, down through olive groves and green vineyards and yellowing corn crops, screwing their eyes up against the dust, down past country carts and men who stared and did not see who they were until they were by. They went down the Oenos valley, between steep hills, good for defence or ambushing. On their right was the brown hump of Euas. Panteus, in his mind’s eye, was ringing it with palisades, Euas and the hill to the left, little Olympos. They passed the town of Sellasia and then in half an hour came down on to Eurotas, the wide stone scar of its bed with the great river in the middle, drying up with summer, showing the long rock ridges along its course. And so into the market-place of Sparta, past Apollo who had loosed his arrows at the King and was smiling still, and up to the door of the King’s house. There were people in the market-place who watched them but said nothing. They knew about this, but they did not perhaps know of the other terrible things that had happened to Sparta.
The King stood in front of his house and said with a sort of horrified amazement: ‘She will not come!’ And it was apparent to Panteus that he could not lift his hand to the knocker on that door. Panteus dismounted and did it himself. They went in. Kratesikleia came to meet them, an old woman, broken down, her pride destroyed by sorrow. The King looked at her black clothes, taking them in. He said: ‘You know Megistonous is dead?’
She said: ‘I did not know that, Kleomenes, but I thought he might be. I had a letter he sent me just before the attack on Argos.’ She dabbed at her eyes. ‘Well, at least I know now. You sent him away in anger, Kleomenes, and he was old enough to be your father. Is all the news bad, my son?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there’s little left now except Sparta itself. Is Eukleidas here, mother? I must speak to him.’
‘He is here,’ she said. Then, as the King did not move: ‘Will you come in? She is there.’
He looked at nothing over his mother’s shoulder and said: ‘If any of her girls are there, tell them to get out before I come. Go and do that first, please, mother.’ She went in, going lame up the steps. He thought he heard one of the children crying, poor little Gorgo, perhaps. He might be able to help the boys, but not her. In a minute Eukleidas came out. He kissed his brother and tried to say something, but Kleomenes stopped him, pressing his mouth down against his own shoulder. He said: ‘I want to know how much money we have left in Sparta. Then we must talk over plans. We’re beaten right back
into Tegea, Eukleidas. I expect I have smashed up your life altogether as well as my own. You’re a good brother.’
‘I love you,’ said Eukleidas helplessly. He wanted to say so many kind and useful things!
Kleomenes said: ‘I think I will go in now.’ He walked away from both of them, towards the women’s rooms, almost certain that he was not even beginning to listen for her voice or footsteps. He felt somebody take his hand and kiss it. That must be one of the girls, Chrysa perhaps. But he did not look down. He stopped in front of the door he must go through next, making up his mind to it. There was something on the floor to his right, doubled up, holding on with one hand to the edge of the bench. Philylla. They’d turned her out for him. He said to her gently: ‘Come in when you want, Philylla.’ And then he raised his hand to the door.
After a while Philylla looked up. That was because someone was looking at her. It was Nikomedes and he seemed all right for a moment because he was making no noise, but then his face twisted up horribly and his mouth opened and he began to cry again. ‘Oh, Nikomedes!’ she said, and she meant don’t. But he thought she meant the same sort of protest against the horrible thing that the world had turned into as his crying was. He said: ‘Oh, Philylla!’ meaning that she was the only person who really understood. For Nikolaos was too young and could be interested in other things, even today, and his granny was too old; she was only sad, not angry, not aching all over with hate as he was. Why should it have happened to him, when other boys’ mothers—‘Oh, my poor darling,’ said Philylla, ‘what are we to do?’
He came and sat beside her on the floor. After a time he put his arms round her neck. ‘Shall I have you always?’ he asked.
‘Yes!’ said Philylla, feeling she must say it. ‘Till you’re old enough not to need me.’
For a time they kissed and petted one another, then Nikomedes began again: ‘Oh, I do wish I’d been a better boy to her!’ he said. ‘Oh, Philylla, I remember telling her lies when I was little. If only I could explain about it now.’
‘I expect she knew usually,’ said Philylla. Then: ‘Oh, Nikomedes, I’m wishing I’d never, never said a word to hurt her, or bothered her about things. Oh, I do wish I’d asked her such lots of questions! I’ve got no one to ask now. I’m lost.’
Nikomedes snuggled up to her. ‘Do ask me if they’re not too difficult questions. I know quite a lot. Dear, dear Philylla, don’t cry so.’
Nikolaos ran out and saw them and checked and stamped his foot. ‘Think about something else!’ he ordered. Then he flung himself on to Philylla, crying too.
She had them both in her arms when Panteus came. He sat down on the bench opposite her and watched them, unsmiling. At last he said: ‘Is the King in there?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘alone.’
After a time he said: ‘Ought someone to go in?’
‘He told me I might,’ said Philylla. She reached out her free hand and said low: ‘Oh, Panteus.’
He took it, but there was not much reassurance in his grip. He said: ‘What about the children? Shouldn’t they go to their father?’
‘I won’t!’ said Nikolaos. ‘I don’t want to look at mother!’
‘Neither do I,’ said Nikomedes. ‘But—does father want me? I didn’t know he’d come yet. I thought perhaps he was still at Argos.’
‘Nikomedes,’ said Panteus, ‘listen. You are a king’s son and you must learn to bear things that other boys can’t and to hear things that other boys don’t hear. We’ve lost Argos. We’ve lost almost all the towns we had a week ago. The Macedonians have outnumbered us and beaten us. It was nobody’s fault, but it has happened. We have to make new plans.’
‘But I thought—’ said Nikomedes, stammering, horrified, ‘I thought Sparta was going to win—now. Father said so.’
‘We all thought so,’ Panteus said. ‘We’re all hurt by it. But it’s worst for the King.’
‘I see,’ said Nikomedes. ‘Then I expect I’d better go to him. Philylla, will you please come too, in a little?’
‘Yes,’ said Philylla. ‘Brave boy!’
Nikolaos suddenly sobbed. ‘I’m brave too, but I don’t want to go in yet, Philylla.’
She petted him. ‘Yes, you’re a big, brave boy, too. Go and talk to Gorgo now; tell her father’s come.’ When he went back, she turned to Panteus and said: ‘That’s bad news. What will happen?’
Panteus shook his head. ‘I don’t know. The King has plans about Egypt. When this is over he’ll do something about it.’ He said nothing more but sat with his head in his hands.
Philylla got up off the floor and shook her dress out and sat down on the other bench. ‘Panteus,’ she said, ‘I’m very unhappy.’
He looked across at her with his blue eyes, his straight eyebrows twisted with pain and worry. ‘I know you are, Philylla,’ he said, ‘and I’m sorry. I am really sorry. But I can’t do anything about it now, can I?’ His voice was angry and helpless and appealing, like a child’s who can’t help hurting you and wants you to understand it’s your fault, not his!
‘I suppose you can’t,’ said Philylla. Then she got up and went softly into the other room. Kleomenes was hugging Nikomedes very hard and they were both crying and whispering to one another. Neither of them was looking at Agiatis now, so Philylla went over and sat down by her feet and leant her head against the couch.
The King spent one night in Sparta. All the evening he and Panteus and Eukleidas made plans and he drafted a letter to Ptolemy. The next day they buried Agiatis. Every one who was left in Sparta came to mourn with the King, and the maids of honour who were married and perhaps mothers came from their houses to weep for the Queen. Sphaeros came too. His ship had sailed on, suddenly, leaving this lovely and pleasant island, the springs of clear water, the voices of the birds. He must not regret it, must not turn away his eyes from the piloting of his ship. Kratesikleia cut off her hair at the tomb, and Gorgo’s short, soft curls. Philylla did not cut her hair. What was the use? Her heart was for the time buried with Agiatis. All that day and for some weeks afterwards she felt curiously cold, though it was the middle of summer. Before Kleomenes rode to Tegea he kissed her and said: ‘I know she loved you better than anyone. Tell me if ever I can do anything for you, Philylla.’ But she shook her head and said ‘No.’ Then: ‘All I want in the world now is to be of some use to you and Sparta. She knew that.’ The King said: ‘Later I will ask you to talk with me about her sometimes. Not yet.’
The two boys went back to their class. It was the best thing for them. Nikomedes had suddenly found himself curiously near to his father. He felt very much now that he was the King’s eldest son, that he could share in all the hopes and fears and plans, and really be part of Sparta. He was a little surprised, but mostly very glad and proud. In this mood he could face life again. Kleomenes himself had been wonderfully comforted by the boy, whom he had always thought of as a child, something in the vague future, perhaps, but nothing so far for him. Now all at once he had seen Agiatis again in her son. He looked forward to days with his boy—soon: in winter after the snowfall when there would be no more fighting. He would hunt with Nikomedes, teaching him all kinds of things, talk to him about how to be a king. That was something definite, a fixed point in the future. He and his son had agreed together that they would do this.
Gorgo was with her grandmother a great deal. She wanted to be petted and have stories told her all the time. She did not believe it when they said her mother was never coming back. And then even Philylla went away, back to her own house, and wouldn’t promise to come to Gorgo every day—every, every day till mother was at home again.
Erif Der went back with Philylla. It was the obvious thing to do, now that the King’s house was empty. Almost all the maids of honour went home or got married except one or two quite young ones who stayed on with Kratesikleia and little Gorgo. Philylla would have found it very hard to face home without the Queen of Marob to ride back with her and to talk to her mother and Ianthemis instead of letting th
em ask questions. She went to bed early, but she couldn’t sleep. She was seventeen now and full grown, and oh, so ready to be kind to anyone who was kind to her! She couldn’t sleep. There were no voices in the house, only the noises of the country at night, the ringing of the crickets on the hot hillside, the low cry of a night-jar, a goat suddenly bleating. It must be midnight. She couldn’t sleep. If only Agiatis would come to her, even the ghost of Agiatis. She wouldn’t be frightened, she would welcome it. She stared across the room. She cried out: ‘Agiatis!’ But it was Erif Der who answered: ‘It’s only me.’ She felt her way over to the bed. ‘You weren’t able to sleep, were you? I felt it. Philylla, I can help you; I’ve got power over that. I’ll do a magic on you, a little easy magic, to make you sleep.’ She began to stroke Philylla’s head and hands; she sang like a bee. Her voice got farther and farther away. Philylla dreamt about Agiatis. She could not remember exactly what or how when she woke up, but somehow it had made her less unhappy and she could answer back very satisfactorily when Ianthemis asked if she wasn’t ever going to get married.
After that smash-up there was no more fighting for a time, though every one stayed ready for it. Panteus was left in command at Tegea when the King was not there himself and practically never got back to Sparta. Occasionally, there would be a raid against him, but not very serious, rather a test of how things were and a way of stopping the Spartan army from having any adequate rest. Panteus was very careful of his men’s comfort; he saw that they had good food and that the wounded were looked after properly, and when there was any good news, he gave it to them at once.
The Corn King and the Spring Queen Page 43
